


Apartment 207

by aspiringtoeloquence



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringtoeloquence/pseuds/aspiringtoeloquence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universe has a way of coming up with contingency plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the 2013 kblreversebang, and I am very lucky to have been able to write for such wonderful art. Thank you, [egobus](http://www.egobus.tumblr.com)  
> The amazing art can be found here!  
> [Art by egobus.](http://aspiringtoeloquence.tumblr.com/post/58109799673/art-by-egobus-posted-with-permission-for-the)  
> My tireless beta for this was idoltina.  
> Thank you to thetardisblue for the formatting help!  
> This fic was completed (minus some minor edits) in late June, before the passing of Cory Monteith. As such it contains Finn Hudson as a relatively minor character.

This is how it could have happened.

Apartment 207 has been empty for a while now.

It’s been at least three months - ever since that couple, Kris and Chris (and Kurt was never quite sure which was which) moved back to Indiana, or Indianapolis, or wherever it was they were from. Kurt expected someone to move in relatively quickly, but instead there had been minor renovations for a few weeks and then the hall had gone - and remains - silent. Instead of taking the occasional overly intense interest in their neighbors (“They must be drug addicts, Kurt! Why else do they not go to work during the day? It’s very sinister. It will make a wonderful character study for when I have to play more the more dramatic, gritty, and tortured roles!”), Rachel has been forced to go back to seething about her dance teacher and simultaneously plotting her takeover of NYADA and eventual Tony acceptance speeches.

The vacant apartment has become a part of life, something Kurt hardly ever thinks of anymore, and so he’s surprised one Thursday afternoon in June as he rounds the top of the stairs. He still has his headphones in, and is cursing his new and extremely fashionable navy cardigan for colluding with the sudden New York heat to ruin his carefully chosen ensemble. Luckily his hair has lasted through his day at Vogue; working in fashion full time again (even if it’s only until school starts up in a few months) means that it’s all the more important for him to look his best. He doesn’t want to give any tongues a reason to wag, and in that building they barely even need a reason.

He thinks there’s still some ice cream in the freezer, and he plans to spend the rest of his Thursday watching whatever marathon TV Land or their DVR has to offer. It’s been a long week - a long month, really, with finals and his decision to stay and work rather than spend the summer back in Ohio - and he’s going to take tonight to relax. Rachel won’t be home yet; she’s taking a tap class at some studio in SoHo three nights a week, so perhaps he’ll order the good Chinese and indulge in extra potstickers without fear of their shameless theft. It’s nice to have the loft to himself, his own space in a city that feels very crowded, especially living with Rachel Berry. Oh, sometimes on Thursdays that take-out place does the extra spicy sauce, if he orders extra he can take some to -

He shifts his weight and nearly trips over the boxes while digging for his keys. It takes him a moment - he pauses Kristen’s assertion that she’s gonna make him _pop-u-lar_ \- to realize that they’re piled around the door to 207. And not only is the door wide open, but someone is _singing_ inside. Singing _California Girls_ , no less, and if he’d been paying attention as he climbed the stairs he might have heard it before, even if it seems to be drifting from the back of the apartment. He looks over the boxes, curious to know who they’ll be sharing a hallway with; he hopes that at least these people know how to either come home quietly or at a reasonable hour, a skill that seemed to be beyond the Krises. The only clue he finds is a box labelled _Sam’s room_ , with a smiley face, so maybe there’s a Samantha or something. The box on top of it must be labelled on the other side. Whoever they are they seem to have their boxes neatly labelled, and at least one of them has a very nice voice, although the taste in music is most certainly questionable.

The tune switches from Katy Perry to Beach Boys ( _Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older-)_ , but the fact that the voice is coming closer takes a few moments to register. He’s still standing in front of his apartment door, gaping with keys in his hand, when a figure appears around the door and bends to rotate and then pick up a box. He’s about Kurt’s age, probably, short and well muscled, with dark curls that are a little tousled and a nicely fitted white t-shirt. His eyes land on Kurt and he stands up, box in his arms, blinking quickly into a surprised smile.

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly, and their eyes meet - this new neighbor doesn’t give him the Manhattan once over, at least not in the practiced, judgmental way he’s become used to. His eyes are warm, and Kurt steps away from his door without really thinking about it.  
“Hi,” he replies. “You must be one of the new neighbors.”

His neighbor seems either not to notice or care that Kurt is making near mortifying statement of the obvious because his grin widens and he shifts a little, box in hand. “I am. I’ll probably end asking you lots of annoying questions. I’m new here.”

“My name’s Kurt.”

But cute probably-neighbor can’t take the hand Kurt’s offering, because of the box, so there’s an awkward moment until he shifts to brace the box and lean against the doorjamb. He wipes his hand on his sweats quickly, like maybe he’s hoping that Kurt won’t notice, and then his dry palm and fingers are wrapping around Kurt’s. “Blaine.”

“Blaine...” Kurt echoes it automatically, trying the name on his tongue. It feels comfortable there, rolls off like it’s been waiting there, just for this moment. He shakes that thought off almost before its fully formed - ridiculous. Blaine grins and grabs the box again.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” The box doesn’t look heavy, exactly, but Kurt should probably let him go back to his moving instead of staring (not ogling, he is not ogling) in the hallway.

What was it again, that saying about loving thy neighbor?

What he says instead of _well, I’ve got to go, so see you soon and welcome to the building_ is “Your box doesn’t have a smiley face.”

Blaine blinks at him (and oh, eyelashes) and his eyes dart down to the box after a pause.“Oh. Yeah. Well, I labelled the boxes, so...”

“Your...” he makes a show of glancing down, “...Sam didn’t help?”

Blaine snorts. “If he had his way ‘packing’ would have been shoving all our stuff into garbage bags.”

And that doesn’t really tell him anything except that Sam is most likely not a Samantha.  
Blaine’s still talking. “...I didn’t mean that - Sam’s a really great guy, he just... isn’t into packing. Unless it’s the x-box. He’ll be here later, he’s working right now. I’m just...” he waves an arm. “...getting everything sort of laid out.”

“What a great roommate,” Kurt offers, eyes on Blaine’s, waiting for a reaction.

Blaine’s grin just gets wider and it’s infectious. “I try.”

Someone laughs in the stairwell, and whatever was happening - Kurt isn't great at identifying these things, but it had felt for a second there like Blaine's eyes on his was leading to something - slips away with their breath.

“Well I’d better -”

Blaine exhales. “My hair’s not - I usually - it’s all in the box.”

Kurt’s eyes flick to the small box on the ground. “Your hair?”

“No, I...” Blaine huffs out a half laugh. “My hair usually looks better than this. But we’ve been moving all day, so I didn’t put anything...”

Kurt sees that the box is labelled _Hair Products_ in emphatically underlined letters. A man after his own heart.

“Oh.”

He clears his throat, sees Blaine shift awkwardly, cheeks slightly pink from what might be more than a day full of trips up and down the stairs. And then Kurt’s mouth is opening again. “For what it’s worth, I like it.”

Blaine tilts his head. “What?”

“Your hair.”

Now Blaine’s definitely blushing, eyelashes fluttering a little as he shifts to hold the box in his arms closer to his hip. “Oh.” Kurt swears he sees him scuff a toe. “Thanks.”

There’s another pause; Blaine looks up, and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds.  
He waves his keys. “I’d better -”

“Of course!” Blaine responds immediately. “It was nice to meet you.”

Blaine turns into 207 and the words _you too_ don’t quite make it to Kurt’s lips.

***

Two weeks later, Kurt’s digging through his bag again, frustrated beyond belief that he can’t feel the metal of his bulkiest keychain. It’s a warm Saturday, and after post-morning yoga, he feels stretched out and relaxed, ready for another Rachel-less day to catch up on emails and perhaps finish re-reading Patti’s autobiography. Maybe he’ll keep working on his latest musical endeavor (although he isn’t sure if he has the energy to compose everything alone after Pip Pip Hooray). His latest few costume sketches still need to finish being colored. He might even sweat to the oldies later, if the mood strikes and the air conditioning is working properly again.

Of course, all that is dependent on his keys being in his bag, and after five minutes of fruitless searching _that_ is looking increasingly unlikely. He vaguely remembers throwing them onto his nightstand last night as he poured himself into bed after a long day at work (Isabelle was in fits over the layout for the Fall teasers, and _no one_ in that building seemed to be able to understand the difference in statement of maroon vs. chartreuse). He’d been leaving for pre-yoga coffee with a friend this morning at the same time that Rachel was leaving to go to an audition and he’d threatened to throw them at her if she didn’t get out of the bathroom but -

He doesn’t have his keys.

He doesn’t have his keys, and Rachel isn’t answering her phone because of her stupid yodeling class, and their super has taken to pretty much ignoring them after the fifth time Rachel called to complain about the acoustics in the bathroom.

So that’s fine. Instead of spending a relaxing afternoon at home he’ll just wait in the crummy unairconditioned hallway. He can’t really afford to get coffee again today, not if he wants to make rent and buy that wonderful navy jacket (he’s cut down on expenses, it’s his one treat to himself and he’ll roast before he lets that jacket go). He doesn’t have the energy to window shop. Honestly, he’s working himself into a foul enough mood that he probably shouldn’t text anyone to see if they’re-

The door to 207 clicks open, and before Kurt has time to really think about what that means Blaine is in the hall, keys in one hand (see, it’s not so difficult, other people manage to remember their keys) and a bag of what Kurt assumes is recycling in the other. Blaine’s humming a vaguely familiar tune, providing occasional percussion in the form of a soft ‘ba-bom’. Kurt’s still slouched a little against the wall when he turns around, frozen a little, and Blaine starts.

“Kurt! Kurt, you’re - hi!”

Blaine’s barefoot (inadvisable in the hallway, a point that Kurt fully intends to make for the sake of Blaine’s health and not at all because he has such lovely ankles), t-shirt a little wrinkled and hair a little messy, like he’s just woken up. His voice is even a little scratchy, and hearing his name sends Kurt’s mind to a very private place - one he’s been partially successful at keeping himself from thinking about, at least during daylight hours.

But only for a moment. He realigns his spine, nonchalantly stilling his phone where he’s tapping it against his thigh. “Blaine!”

“How are -”

“I hope you’re -”

They both abruptly stop, laugh for a moment.

“I was going to say,” Kurt continues, “that I hope you’re settling in okay.”

“Yeah.” Blaine shifts his weight a little. “Yeah, the building’s great. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to really spend time with anyone yet, but I hope that - “

“I’m sure you’ll be able to soon, you’ve only been here -”

“I hope so.” Blaine clears his throat, and Kurt actively avoids staring at the way his throat moves. “So, how are you?”

“Me? I’m great. Good. Fantastic.” Kurt hears himself and has to let out a breath that’s half laughter. At Blaine’s raised eyebrow (great, the cute neighbor thinks Kurt’s crazy), he allows a small shrug. “I’m just- waiting. I seem to have left my keys on my nightstand. It’s turning into a morning.”

Blaine’s eyebrows furrow adorably in distress. “Oh no. Is your roommate on her way-”  
“Possibly she - she’ll probably be out of class soon, I’m sure -”

“Rachel, right?”

“Yes, I -”

“You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

A description of Rachel’s busy schedule dies on Kurt’s tongue as Blaine’s words register (he’s not proud, but the word coffee tends to get his attention, even if he isn’t already intrigued).  
“What?”

“I was -” Blaine shifts his weight, and his eyes drop briefly to the floor. Kurt can’t help but sigh; Blaine’s eyelashes are criminal. “I just wondered if maybe, while you’re waiting, you’d like a cup of coffee - or something else, I don’t know if you drink coffee, I think we have, uh, tea, and orange juice, and maybe milk if Sam didn’t drink it all -”

“I like coffee,” Kurt blurts out. Okay, everything about Blaine is adorable.

Blaine’s face breaks into another smile. “Great. That’s great, I -” He swings the door open behind him. “Please, come in, I -” He starts to put the trash bag down next to the door, seems to think the better of it. “I’ll be right back, I just need to -” He half hops and sort of skips in running down the hall, neatly shoving the bag into the recycling chute and returning to find Kurt in the same place, still watching him. “Please, make yourself comfortable, I’ll just -”

Kurt believes that decoration says a lot about a person, and he prides himself on being able to read people in that way. Apartment 207 is clearly still a work in progress, with a few boxes scattered around in various states of unpacking. There’s a couch - he’d heard through Rachel (who had run into Blaine at the mailbox) that they’d lucked into finding one cheap online - a beanbag, a tv (games consoles plugged in), and several boxes that seem to serve as a makeshift coffee table. It’s very simple, adorned with a mixture of packing materials, notebooks, and some assorted games and DVDs, and there are blankets set up in two areas for what he assumes are their bedrooms. Kurt can think of several ways to utilize the space better - the low bookshelf would be better by the closer window, and the colors of the couch (and comfortable-looking throw) don’t do anything for the shade of the walls. Nor does the dingy red of the beanbag, although he can certainly appreciate the impoverished student chic. It’s rife with possibility, and it’ll be so telling to see Blaine (and his roommate) make the place his (their) own.

Blaine is busying himself with a box, picking pieces of packing paper off the couch and floor with an apologetic and slightly panicked air.

“Sorry for the -” He waves the box in the air, shuffles a pile of sheet music onto the quasi-coffee table. Kurt can’t help but notice that he has very nice hands. He must moisturize. “By now it should look... well, anyway, make yourself comfortable. Please.”

“It looks good,” Kurt offers mildly, letting himself sink into the worn leather, and he’s torn between a wince and a snort at Blaine’s incredulity. “Okay, it’s a work in progress, but you clearly have an eye.” He tilts a head toward the framed (and signed) Wicked poster leaning against a box with Blaine’s name on it and smiles. “And excellent taste. I’d love to hear that story.”  
Blaine’s eyes follow him and his face lights up. “I - oh. Thanks. Of course. It’s... I think it’ll take some time. To make it look like home, you know? Your place is so great.” He scratches the back of his neck and oh, arm.

Kurt can’t help but smile. And not just because of the nicely shaped arm, or even because it took him a year to find the furniture to make the loft habitable. He can relate. But - “You’ve seen our loft?”

“Yeah. Only for a minute, last week, when Rachel wanted help moving her new music stand.”

That’s new information. “You mean the yellow monstrosity currently ruining the aesthetic of the living area? The one that makes it look like the living room was, at some point in the past, attacked by an army of angry bananas?”

Blaine leans against the opposite arm. “Aw, come on. It’s... bright. Sunny.” The brown of his eyes has glints of gold in it, and maybe the stupid music stand isn’t so bad after all. “Anyway, your place looks great. I especially love the jaunty lamp. Very... Russian palace. You have fantastic taste.”

“Thank you.” He preens a little. He found that lamp for ten dollars at a thrift store in the village, and it was worth every one of the weird looks he got on the subway home that day. Most people - well, Rachel and the couple of other people who have been in their apartment since he got it - don’t appreciate the ironic ornamental chic. But his apartment - his and Rachel’s apartment - is home. And although he knows he’s walking the fine line between cluttered and fascinating, he feels like, as he brings home more, he fills it up with himself. He’s filling it up with New York and the life that he’d promised himself when he was sitting in his beautifully decorated room in Lima, hoping these days would come. It’s not perfect - the lack of walls is annoying, especially when Santana comes to visit and inevitably brings girls home, but everything in their apartment has a story, and even if they don’t know what it is, it’s still nice to think that all of these things have mattered to people before they found their way there. They’ve been loved and lost and scuffed and polished, and each piece is still standing.

They’re smiling at each other, Blaine’s arm braced on the back of the couch and Kurt a little closer to the center than he was a few moments ago. Kurt is suddenly aware of the space between them, or, more accurately, how great it would be if that space just... didn’t exist.  
“So!” Blaine doesn’t move much further away, but blinks a couple of times as though clearing his head. “Can I get you a drink? I think we have coffee, orange juice, milk if it isn’t - and water, obviously. Or I have tea.”

“A cup of coffee would be great.”

Blaine returns with two mugs a few minutes later - pretty, with flecks of neon color that look like they’re buried in the ceramic - and settles himself on the next cushion. “I’m sorry your day hasn’t gone as planned.”

“Don’t be,” Kurt manages around his cup, the slightly bitter and creamy taste warm and welcoming on his tongue. He knows his cheeks are probably blushing a very unflattering shade, but he commits, because Blaine is kind, and he makes jokes about obscure Sondheim songs by the mailboxes, and he’s unreasonably gorgeous, and he’s smart - or at least so far he’s recognized Kurt’s more lofty references in the two conversations (well, mostly in the other three or so almost-conversations) they’ve had. He’s worth taking a chance. “My day is definitely looking up.”

And there’s no other word for it, Blaine’s face _scrunches_ \- his nose wrinkles adorably as his eyes close for a moment, and if Kurt’s blushing he’s confident that at least Blaine’s matching him. “I’m glad if I could help.”

“You really, really do.” He exhales, leans in a little, smiling when Blaine follows, mirrors him again and -

_Don’t tell me not to live just sit and puttah! Life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of buttah-_

Rachel Berry, he thinks as they both start and their attention shifts to the culprit: Kurt’s phone sitting in the side-pocket of his bag, _you have the worst timing of any human being on the planet._

Despite Rachel’s timing, it seems all is not lost, however. Rachel is waiting for the train, and in the hour and fifty minutes it takes for her to get to Bushwick he learns a lot. And while kissing Blaine would have been nice - _amazing probably, he looks like he takes care of those lips and they probably taste like coffee and_ \- and it would have been even nicer if Blaine had kissed him back, he might not have learned so much today. He learned about Blaine’s high school (in Ohio, of all places, and sometimes Kurt thinks the world might be small after all) and college (NYU, in his second year), his love of music (Bryan Ferry to Katy Perry, Beethoven to Beyonce, _this boy_...), his knowledge of broadway musicals (which almost rivals Kurt’s own), his love of sports (which, okay, Kurt can’t claim to share, but Blaine’ll have something in common with his dad, and a couple shouldn’t be _identical_ , they should have interests outside the shared, right?)...

He’s learned and shared, and although he’s not picking the wedding colors yet (he’d always thought he and his groom would go pale blue and silver, but Blaine’s far more autumnal, the color palate needs to be rethought completely), he thinks maybe...

Well, he thinks maybe, one day, he could love this man, this boy with his sheet music, an affinity for toy robots and the artsy mugs he bought on his first day in New York. The boy with a beautiful smile, and his soft, witty replies, and his unabashed fanboying over Kurt’s secondhand account of meeting Neil Patrick Harris. He thinks... he thinks this could matter. That maybe one day they could be surrounded by boxes, and he’d draw smiley faces on Blaine’s, just because he could. Perhaps even a heart, to make Blaine smile _just like that_ , and then...

And, although he’s been known to misread these things...with the couple of moments they’ve had, and the way Blaine keeps looking at him (as well as the way Blaine looked at him when he bent over to get his phone), maybe Blaine might think so too?

Which is why he pauses as he moves to the door, after Rachel has announced her presence with a loud knock and flounced across the hall with an extremely obvious wink. Blaine’s hand is on the doorknob, his other on his waist as he tells Kurt he really enjoyed today, would love to spend some more time together, and _now that we have each others’ phone numbers, if you’re free and you wanted to maybe we could_ -

It turns out Blaine’s lips do taste like coffee. Kurt can tell, even with the just-barely-more-than-a-peck he lets linger for a few seconds before he pulls away. Blaine’s hand has already moved to his waist, tangling in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh,” is what Blaine says, pressing his own lips back together. Which doesn’t tell Kurt a lot, really, about the relative level of appropriateness of the kiss that he hadn’t really planned on initiating in the first place.

What tells him more is the way Blaine strokes his thumb softly at his waist, then leans in to plant another kiss on the corner of his mouth.

They both aim more accurately with the next kiss, and it’s accompanied by a soft “I’ll see you tonight” a few minutes later. Kurt’s going to pick him up at seven o’clock, they’ve decided, although Blaine points out they may need to allow an extra thirty seconds for the commute.

***

_18 months later:_

“I hate moving,” Finn complains for the tenth time, dropping an armful of accent pillows onto the couch in a careless way that makes Kurt want to hit him. Again.

“You’re getting paid in pizza, Finn,” he reminds him instead, channeling his inner lotus blossom (or whatever his new yoga teacher keeps saying - Blaine, who has started going with him, happens to set his mat right in front of Kurt, and so sometimes he gets a little distracted). “And I told you, we’re very grateful.”

“You guys have a lot of heavy stuff.”

“You’re moving pillows _across the hall_ , Finn,” Kurt checks his list again. “And those go in the bedroom.”

Finn clomps off just as Blaine appears with another box of books, and Kurt gives himself a moment to appreciate the sight of him setting it down.

Blaine taps the box. “There’s only one more of these. Then we can start unpacking.”

“Rachel’s coming back to grab her last boxes of memorabilia in a few hours.”

He sidles up, fingers slipping under the hem of Kurt’s slouchy moving-sweater. “Hey, roomie.”

“Hi.” Kurt leans his weight into him and considers. “I’m rethinking the couch placement.”

“You’d better not want ours, because Sam already told his new roommates they could have it.”

Kurt manages to avoid wrinkling his nose, because he knows Blaine has an emotional attachment to the couch. He has some very fond memories of it himself - that couch has _seen things_ \- but they agreed that Kurt’s fits better, especially if they use Blaine’s bookshelves and sell Kurt’s to the girl downstairs.

He slips the pencil behind his ear and tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Blaine’s neck. “Mm, no, I just think the light would be better with it against that wall.”

“We can look at it.” Blaine hums and closes his eyes, leaning into the caress. “Oh, did you see where my robots went? They’re not on my desk, and I really hope -”

“I wrapped them in tissue paper - they’re in the shoebox on our bed.” Blaine’s head turns, eyes on him, unblinking, and Kurt’s hand drops to his shoulder. “I didn’t want them to break with stuff moving around, and with Sam and Finn - I hope that’s okay.”

“Kurt... thank you. I...” Blaine presses a quick kiss to the side of his mouth, and Kurt chases him to grab another. “...It’s _our_ bed.”

“Yes, it is.” He’s enjoying the fingers gently skimming just above the waistband of his jeans, fully prepared to set down the clipboard and thoroughly explore the look in Blaine’s eyes, but Finn comes back into the kitchen, dodging the table to grab a slice of cold pizza.

“Okay, I think that’s almost it,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cheese. “I moved the nightstand where you said, so can I -”

“Go see Rachel.” Kurt waves a hand in dismissal.

“Cool, see you later, bro.” He claps Blaine on the back. “Bye.”

“Thanks, man.” Blaine initiates a fist-bump, and after reciprocating, Finn turns to Kurt, grinning.

Kurt can’t help but soften and smile back. “Thank you for your help, Finn.” He lets himself be pulled into a bone crushing hug. Sometimes he has a hard time believing that the same guy who had objected so strongly - and with such venomous language - to the connotations of his teenage decorating choices is the same person who spent the morning lugging Kurt’s boyfriend’s possessions across the hall - and spent last night across the hall at aforementioned boyfriend’s apartment playing video games with him and his roommate until later than Kurt wants to think about. “We really do appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Finn claps his back, then unfolds himself and heads for the door. “Catch you guys later.”

Kurt’s left standing there, in his old apartment that is now their apartment, with his boyfriend, whom he lives with (officially), in a space that has about a third of the stuff it did year ago, plus Blaine’s things. Some space for them to grow, fill it up with their lives. Together.

Blaine squeezes his waist, kisses his neck, and then heads into the bedroom, where Kurt knows he’ll find the shoebox on the bed, next to the brand new keychain and clearly marked in careful script. _Blaine’s Robots_ , it says in black sharpie, embellished with a carefully crafted smile.

And a heart, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

It could have also happened like this:

Kurt’s not about to admit it to anyone, but the jet lag is proving to be harder to shake than he’d thought. 

He’s been back from Paris for three days, the end of his extended semester abroad less of a heartbreak than he’d thought it might be. He loved Paris - the fashion, the friends, the language, the culture - but he’s missed New York, and being back in the city is disorienting and grounding all at the same time. He’s starting work later this week - Isabelle’s anxious to get him back for as many hours as possible while school’s out, but the last three days have been a blur of paperwork and errands... school, Vogue, renewing the lease on the loft, getting his money and phone back online.... and naps. 

Lots of naps, because it turns out that jet lag is a _bitch_ , especially when your roommate persists in doing vocal warm-ups morning, noon and night. If Rachel Berry treats him to one more account of her jetlag-less trip to San Francisco when she was ten, and rhapsodizes on the subject of her “constitution of a world-traveller,” he’s going to brain her with one of his not-quite-unpacked suitcases. 

He’s just finished at the bank, an hour long errand that consisted mainly of standing in line to present paperwork, and is relying on his music to keep him awake up the stairs and into the apartment. Although at this point he’s negotiable as to which piece of furniture he takes a nap on; the couch is closer, but his bed is comfier. But the pillow covers on the couch are the ones he brought back with him, and they’re really soft, so... 

He rounds the top of the stairs and only just registers the boxes in the hallway in time to avoid tripping on them. It’s not that they’re even in the way -- they’re pushed considerately to the wall; he’s just not at his most spatially aware right now. 

He’s successfully navigated the boxes and is nearing his door - his finish line - when over the closing strains of the song he hears something sift behind him, and he turns to find -

Great, he’s hallucinating. He’s hallucinating cute guys in the hallway outside his apartment, and exhaustion has finally, actually started melting his brain. 

He’s had a fair amount of practice imagining the perfect man - intelligence, humor, height, hair color, eye color, build - and while he can’t say this guy fits any of those incarnations (he’s become more discerning since the days of his crush on Finn, thank you), but the curly hair, muscles he can see underneath the white t-shirt, brown eyes (widened in surprise?) and smile are all really, really working for him. 

“Hi,” he says, and the guy may have spoken to him already, but if he has he doesn’t seem thrown. “I’m Kurt.” 

“Kurt, hi!... I’m Blaine.” 

“You’re moving in?” It’s probably a stupid question (holding a box, boxes in the hall), but Blaine doesn’t seem to think so. 

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Out, actually. And you must be Kurt, the roommate I’ve heard so much about.” 

Kurt’s feeling more awake by the minute, and his momentary confusion - this boy had _not_ lived across the hall from them six months ago - clears when he remembers Rachel mentioning subletters. She’d said they were cute, but Kurt hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Since then the only context had been a few references indicating that she much preferred them to the previous tenants of 207, and Kurt would see what she meant when he got back. There was also something about showtunes in the mailroom. He really does need to sit Rachel down and catch up on the last few months.  
“We moved in at the end of February,” Blaine continues, “when Sandra moved uptown.”  
“Oh, right... ” 

Blaine shows no signs of moving, leaning against the doorframe with his bright socks obvious against the scuffed hallway floor. “Rachel told me you were in Paris for a semester - god, that’s got to have been amazing.” 

“It was.” Kurt’s sigh is fond this time. “It really was, but I’m glad to be home. It feels like I’ve missed so much, you know.” 

“I can’t imagine. I mean, obviously I can, but... it just sounds amazing.” Blaine has set the box down, eyes wide with enthusiasm, arms gesturing. “Like, the people, and the food, and the culture, and the fashion... I’d love to go there someday.” 

_I’d love to see that smile against a Parisian sunset._ Which is a ridiculous thought, but Kurt can’t help it. This Blaine is so excited, already talking about his love of books and movies set in Paris. 

“I loved it,” Kurt offers. “It was surreal, though, drinking my morning mocha under the Eiffel tower instead of hurrying to catch a subway. And I’m pretty sure I kept the local patisserie in business...” He clears his throat. “You should check to see if your school has a program. Where do you go to school?” 

“NYU. I’m a sophomore.” 

Kurt nods, mentally flipping through the faces he remembers. “One of the girls in my building was from NYU. A history major, I think. You should look into it, if you want.” 

Blaine tilts his head thoughtfully. “I definitely will. Thanks.” 

He gestures to the boxes. “So, where are you headed?’ 

Blaine shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted to take over the lease, but Sam’s moving into this place closer to where he works.” 

Kurt eyes him for a reaction, notes the smiley faces on the boxes marked with Sam’s name. “And Sam’s your...” 

“Roommate,” Blaine completes quickly, and with the way he glances down briefly, color in his cheeks, Kurt smiles a little to himself, holds his chin a little higher with assurance on two counts. “Sam’s my roommate.” 

“And are you moving with him - I mean, now?” 

“Yeah, I actually found a place, but the lease doesn’t start until Aug - sorry, you don’t need to hear my life story. You just got back, right? You’re probably still adjusting.” 

It occurs to Kurt in that moment that he probably looks like hell, and he has never hated jet lag more than at that specific moment. Not even when Rachel’s ode to the lonely goatherd started the previous morning. He breathes a little quicker, suddenly anxious to get inside. “A little - I... I must be a mess. I’ll let you get back to... you must be busy.” 

Blaine’s eyes go unexpectedly - but gratifyingly - wide (and god, they’re delicious). “No, no, are you - that’s - you look... amazing.” 

“That’s... thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

There’s a long pause where either of them could speak. Kurt’s half hoping Blaine will say something, half sure he won’t be able to continue an intelligible conversation for much longer and will make an even bigger ass of himself.

The pause stretches on, and eventually Blaine reaches for the box he’d set down, adjusting it. It says ‘Hair Products’ in extremely important looking letters, and Kurt thinks it’s kind of adorable the way Blaine clutches it to his chest. 

“Well, it was great to meet you!” Blaine smiles as Kurt finally fits his key in the door. 

“Yes! You too. I mean, good luck with moving.” 

“I’ll see you around,” Blaine adds, setting the box back down in its new, rotated position. 

Kurt smiles through the slight twinge - stupid Sam person, wanting to move out of the building - and nods back. “I hope so.” 

And even before Blaine turns and Kurt catches a glimpse of a very nicely formed rest-of-Blaine’s-body as it retreats into the apartment with a hand cautiously running through curly hair, he’s thinking _really, I do._

*** 

 

“So... you know Blaine, right?” 

In retrospect it isn’t the most subtle opener he could have chosen, but subtlety has never exactly been Rachel’s strong suit, and he’s hoping to get some information out of her over vegan lasagna. His run-in with Blaine yesterday had stayed with him, and he thinks it probably has to do with feeling a little new in the city all over again. Of course he’s looking for people to feel comfortable with, back in his city again. He’s just curious about their former neighbor. That’s normal. In New York. Totally normal. 

“Hmmm... what?” 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, something he credits with getting a decent night’s sleep last night. He even dreamed - he was in a caramel factory, and they were making him a cheesecake person, only he was a little concerned about eating the eventual cheesecake-person because it seemed to him like a morally grey area. 

He’s pretty sure Freud would have had a field day. 

“Blaine, you know. The subletter. From across the hall.” 

Rachel looks up from her phone, where she’s been emphatically not-texting her latest not-boyfriend. “Blaine? Oh, yeah, he was moving out this week. Shame, I think you two might have been kindred spirits. I know he was _very_ interested in meeting you.” She turned thoughtful. “I certainly felt a kinship with him, although I must admit that finding out that our sexualities were not compatible certainly upset a few plans I’d had for -” 

“I met him. When he was moving out.” Kurt moves a piece of mushroom around his plate with what he decides is convincing nonchalance. He’s eyeing the whorls in the wood of their dining room table casually. “He seems nice.” 

Rachel hums for a moment, then freezes, her lips curling into the smile that Kurt knows never means anything good. “You know, I did think that it was such a pity that he and Sam moved in while you were gone. I did mention to him that I thought the two of you would get along.You know, as disappointing as it is to know that you didn’t find love in Paris -"

“Rachel, I didn’t go there for -” 

“I really think that Blaine is a very good candidate for -” 

“I’m sorry I asked.” 

“He’s very cute, you know, and I happened to notice that his backside is particularly -”

“Rachel, god, please stop -” 

“- very intelligent, he has a high grade point average at NYU, and he’s musical. I know that, like myself, you need a partner who is able to musically satisfy you. Although I haven’t been able to test the fullness of his vocal range, I did learn that he played Tony in his high school’s production of West Side Story, and that would indicate he’s probably-” 

He knows she means well. He does. And he’s missed her these last few months, honestly, he has. But this is why he’d had to think about bringing Blaine up the first place - whatever this could be, if there’s even a chance of anything, it feels private, even beyond his general policy of keeping Rachel from trying to run his life. 

But, like it or not, she knows more about Blaine that he does at this point, and beyond trying to piece together the scraps she told him about the new neighbors during their infrequent conversations over the last few months, this is his best chance. 

“Rachel, I was just wondering about him. That’s all.” 

“I can see he made a good impression.” She’s smirking, but he can’t really be annoyed. Blaine _had_ make an impression, and even though he knows Blaine’s already gone, living somewhere else in the city, he can’t deny that he’s spent the last day imagining scenarios where they could run into each other. At a coffee shop. On a street corner. In Central Park. At the top of the Empire State Building. The scenarios get increasingly less likely, and he realizes that asking Rachel if she has his number would be a far more effective plan. But, well, the idea of putting himself out there like that...it’s scary. 

He hums noncommittally and wraps a strip of lasagna around his fork. “He’s very friendly.” 

“I’m sure.” Rachel’s smirk dims a little, and her hair swings forward as she leans in. “I do think he seems like a very nice boy, Kurt. He borrowed a measuring cup to make cookies for all the neighbors a few weeks ago, and he offered several times to help me carry my groceries. And he walked Mrs. Beinrha’s dogs when she sprained her ankle. You should speak to him again before he leaves.” 

“I think he already did. He was moving out yesterday.” 

Rachel looks surprised. “I thought he was leaving later this week. Sam must have gotten the dates mixed up when I ran into him.” She bites her bottom lip. “Sam is also very nice. Very... helpful.” 

“No, I’m pretty sure they’re gone. I heard the landlord giving a tour earlier.” 

Rachel reaches for another piece of garlic bread. “Well, I hope you got his phone number.” 

Kurt’s hand, reaching for his glass of water, freezes. “You don’t have his number?” 

“Well, I was thinking of getting it, for your sake, although I thought perhaps Blaine might also make a good duet partner - as you know it’s difficult for vocalists with talent like mine to find someone who can keep up. But I’m afraid time got away from me, and with my current relationship issues I didn’t ever get the chance -” 

There’s a twisting in Kurt’s stomach. Sure he could get Blaine’s last name, maybe find him on facebook, but he’d been counting on Rachel having his number. He doesn’t know if he believes in signs, not really, but his idle daydreams of the last day feel so much farther away. 

And so he asks Rachel about her latest “tragic romance”, about the drama he’s been getting in small doses over the last few weeks and that he’s been putting off asking her for the full story on. He takes a big bite of lasagna, sounds outraged in all the right places (she really can do better), and puts Blaine - his eyes, his smile, the timbre of his voice - to the back of his mind. 

He’s just a boy. Who made an impression. 

*** 

Nearing the end of his first week back Kurt’s already clamoring to get into work; he’s always liked having projects to occupy him, but he feels like he’s been spending days reading and sketching, he’s run out of things to catch up on on the DVR (he streamed most things online from Paris, anyway), and four hours into his Golden Girls marathon (after a morning yoga class and a quick trip to his favorite vintage store), he decides to bake instead. And now the cake is in the oven, Rachel won’t be home tonight (something about her not-boyfriend having a performance in midtown, and staying at a classmate’s after; Kurt just told her to be safe and didn’t touch the rest with a ten foot pole), so Kurt’s thinking that he’ll spend the rest of the afternoon/evening reorganizing his closet. Or possibly cleaning the living room. Again. Thankfully he’s been able to undo most of Rachel’s redecorating damage and has been able to hide or dispose of the pieces that were most offensive. 

What he will not spend the afternoon doing is trying to track down Blaine on facebook. On that he is decided. 

He has decided that he has been overinvesting in a ten minute conversation, if that, and Blaine probably doesn’t even remember him. Rachel thinks Blaine was curious and wanted to meet him - yeah, okay, Rachel thought her last boyfriend was actually dating material. He’s been poisoned by Paris, too many days and nights adventuring in the city without someone special to share it with (his friends were great but it’s Paris), and he’s projecting all of this onto Blaine, who happened to be cute, and charming, and witty, and - 

There’s a knock on the door, which cuts off his enumeration of Blaine’s positive attributes (he thought of seventeen last night before he fell asleep), and... oh, god, Kurt Hummel has a crush on a boy. He shakes his head at himself as he dodges furniture to see who it is, _this is so stupid_ \- 

He throws his whole body into opening the door (stupid, he remembers as he’s doing it, his Dad’s voice unhappy in his head, _you’re back in New York now, not in those fancy dorms, always ask first)_ fully prepared to berate Rachel for forgetting her keys again, only - 

That’s not Rachel. 

_That’s not Rachel at all._

“Hi,” Blaine smiles nervously. “I just came by...” He trails off, seems to remember himself after a pause, and thrusts an arm out, fingers wrapped around a plastic handle. “I have your measuring cup,” he explains, uncertainty moving into his eyes and _oh, eyelashes and those lovely -_

“...Kurt?” 

“Yes? Oh, yes. Blaine. Hi. Thanks.” He takes the cup, puts his shoulder into opening the door wider (and nearly sprains his wrist in his haste). “You didn’t have to do that. I was just about to make coffee, would you like some?” (He’s always about to make coffee. He can make coffee. It’s fine.) 

Blaine is biting his bottom lip (and Kurt doesn’t blame him, given the chance...), but seems to brighten a little, and with a little “I’d love to, but I’m sure you’re busy” and Kurt’s “No, please, I’d love company,” they’re in the apartment. And now Kurt is faced with the fact that he has a beautifully organized apartment, but it doesn’t matter because he is wearing sweatpants. Sweatpants that would have cost over a hundred dollars to a less thrifty shopper, but sweatpants nonetheless. At least they’re the flattering ones, and not the ones he bought in high school, his comfort sweats that helped him through the worst of the jet lag. 

Plus, if the way Blaine’s gaze snaps up when he executes his most casual twirl to lean against the kitchen counter is any indication, Blaine doesn’t entirely disapprove of the sweatpants. 

But all of that is tangential to the actual point, which is that _Blaine_ is in his kitchen. There is a cute, smart, potential boy-who-is-a-friend-or-maybe-even-more _in his kitchen_ , and somewhere in his youth or childhood he must have done something good. 

He hooks a finger through the handle of the measuring cup and moves to put it back in the closet, stretching a little farther than he needs to, just because. He pulls open the cabinet, goes to set the measuring cup on the shelf - 

Where it won’t fit, because there is already a measuring cup there, in its correct place. Kurt blinks at it for a moment in confusion before he sees what might be  
part of a price sticker on the bottom of the cup in his hand. He turns back to Blaine, who looks torn between sheepish and embarrassed. 

“I must have...” Blaine starts, “I...can explain...” Kurt just lets the slow grin take over his face and nestles the new cup inside the old. Before he closes the cupboard he reconsiders, pulls it out and sits it back on the table. 

The coffee machine whirs, the measuring cup sits beautifully on their sunny tablecloth, and Blaine smiles at him. And Kurt is so glad to be back in his city.

 

***  
 _10 months later_ :

Kurt sighs, setting the heavy box of books he just lugged up the stairs next to the door. “Please tell Rachel she is taking that music stand over my dead body.” 

He’s willing to let go of the lamp thing - she can have it, it won’t fit with the decor once they move Blaine’s desk in anyway. But she is _not_ just wandering off with that music stand, and if Rachel Berry thinks she can pull one over on Kurt Hummel she has clearly finally gone from eccentric to full on Norma Desmond. 

Finn pauses, then backs away from the door, putting the stand back down. “I just followed the list. She told me to get the music stand, so I -” 

“The music stand stays.” 

“But she said -” 

“Before you say anything else, Finn, please consider who among us - Rachel or I - will be speaking to your mother the soonest, and also who among us has abnormally large feet and managed to break that blue vase last Christmas.” 

“Dude, that vase was totally too breakable, it -” 

“I appreciate your help, Finn. Did I mention that Blaine had more pizza delivered?” 

Finn gives him an unimpressed look, but ultimately discovers quickly where his most immediate allegiances lie. “Awesome. Did he get extra pepperoni?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Cool.” Before he heads to the kitchen he gives Kurt a significant look, takes in his glare, and heads for the bathroom to wash his hands. “If Rachel asks...” 

“You may refer her to me. And I will refer her to my list.” 

Blaine appears around a pile of boxes with a paper plate, extra cheese pizza weighing it down. “Here, time to take a break.” 

Kurt rolls his neck a little, takes a long sip from the bottle of water Blaine thrust into his hand. “Thank you.” He takes the plate and is on the pizza instantly, meaning he needs to articulate around it. “Hoz th’ kichin look?” 

“Pretty much done. Come sit down, have some lemonade.” 

Kurt lets himself be steered the (very) short distance into the kitchen, where Blaine has poured him a glass of lemonade and added a tiny paper umbrella. 

“Blaine...” Kurt takes a long sip, then leans into his boyfriend, spinning the colorful umbrella. “How tropical.” He goes to place the glass down, to free his hands for other things, when he notices one item that hadn’t been put away, sitting amid the discarded bubblewrap and boxes. “Oh.” 

They both consider the measuring cup, small, cheap, and so incredibly significant. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Blaine confided. “I really wanted to see you, but I didn’t have your number, and I couldn’t just - I needed an excuse, even a lame one, to come back and talk to you.” He scratches his head, sheepish. “I guess I didn’t really think it through.” 

“If you hadn’t I would have... found you. I hope.” Kurt squeezes him around the waist once, reaches to pick the measuring cup off the table. “I really, really hope.” 

“You would have found me,” Blaine sparkles with certainty. “Kurt Hummel gets what he wants.” 

Kurt smiles, shrugging minutely. “Well, I _guess_ I did want you.” 

Blaine’s nose crinkles, but before he can get further than an amused smirk, leaning promisingly into Kurt’s touch, Finn is barrelling back into the kitchen. His gaze zeros in on the measuring cup. 

“Kurt, are you making cookies? Awesome. I’ll totally help you eat them before I leave, if you want. Blaine, dude, I left your hair gel and stuff in the bathroom. Wasn’t sure where you wanted it, but at least it’s up all those stairs, right? Oh, and by the way, Burt says he’s planning out his draft for this year already, so we’d better get on that.” 

Kurt watches his boyfriend enter the planning stages of the annual fantasy football tournament, a game he neither understands nor particularly cares to. But it’s hard not to smile when your boyfriend opens the door of your apartment bouncing, because even if his imaginary-quarterback sucks, Burt had told him over the phone (during one of their check in/gloating sessions) that he had a good head on his shoulders, even if his big heart meant he didn’t always pick winners. It was hard not to smile then, even as Kurt felt his heart break a little at the idea that his dad was filling a space - a place of caring and fatherly affection that Blaine hadn’t grown up knowing in the way that Kurt had. 

It’s especially hard not to smile at his boyfriend and his brother bringing the last of the boxes up the stairs, trying to anticipate his dad’s choices (picks? Drafts?) for this season and already wondering if Carole’s next care package will contain more of the mint chocolate chip cookies that they’d both eaten by the platter last Christmas. 

He catches Blaine’s eye across the room, just as Blaine sets a framed photo from one of the boxes on one of the oak side-tables. Kurt recognizes the frame from the bookshelf that had been next to Blaine’s bed in his apartment, and knows it’s them. It’s not even of a night that was significant in any way - not an anniversary, or a birthday, or even a celebration beyond actually finding the time for a date night between their busy schedules. It’s them on the couch in the loft, mussed after watching _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ (and fooling around through three of the weddings). Kurt’s hair is ruffled, and Blaine’s sweatshirt isn’t actually his own. It’s Kurt’s, from his program in Paris, picked up from the floor to cry into when the movie demanded it and later pulled on, slightly loose in one shoulder. They aren’t looking at the camera, wielded by Rachel upon her return. Blaine’s eyes are on Kurt, a soft smile on his face, and Kurt is staring at the laugh lines around Blaine’s eyes and thinking - he very clearly remembers this - that he can’t wait to see which of them deepen with age. With laughter. With life. 

It’s Blaine’s favorite picture of them, and will probably end up on their nightstand, next to Kurt’s copy of the picture Blaine took with his phone when they went to the park on their anniversary - a selected recreation of their first date. In his drawer he has more tucked away, tickets and programs, post-it notes and cards, but there are the things he keeps closer. And now he’ll share that space - those things - with Blaine. 

He gets to _keep_ Blaine, not pretend it doesn’t feel a little wrong every time he leaves to go to his own apartment, or Kurt comes back here alone. 

There’s only one place, one thing, in the loft he can’t share. Well, there were two, but they worked out the closet situation fairly easily, although Kurt still thinks that using blowjobs to win arguments is cheating. 

No, the only place is that corner of the empty Ferragamo box at the back of his closet, the one he’s stashed the little velvet box in, waiting for the right moment. 

He can feel it coming. 

He knows. 

It’s going to be soon.


	3. Chapter 3

But this is how it actually happens. Probably.

“There’s another box of books here somewhere, I brought in the hardbacks, but Finn had the other one. You may need another bookshelf.” Kurt carefully navigates the nearest pile of boxes, checking the labels. 

Blaine pushes a cup of orange juice into his hand. “I think Sam might have them. I saw him carrying a box over there.”

Kurt clicks his tongue impatiently, takes a sip, and sets to work helping Blaine move the new bookshelves into a space where they can be assembled. “I know he means well, but I told him, Rachel and I have already done this. We labelled everything before I left precisely so your boxes wouldn’t get mixed up.”

“He’s just excited.” Blaine leans the first box against the exposed brick wall, right next to where his bed will be, then leans next to it. Kurt lets his eyes take him in, and if he licks his lips a little when he reaches his boyfriend’s chest, well, that’s only natural. “You have to admit, it’s kind of awesome.” Blaine pushes off the wall, grin in place, and crowds Kurt into the clothes carriers hanging from a hook (and that’s another thing they’ll have to do, make sure he gets a rack tonight. Maybe Kurt can even spare one of the ones from across the hall. He steels his spine. It’s his boyfriend, and this is important). “Me being a high school graduate, us being right across the hall -”

“You have Rachel to thank for that,” Kurt quips, hands sneaking under the hem of Blaine’s well-worn Dalton t-shirt. “She’s the one who irritated the previous tenants into moving.”

Blaine’s eyebrows furrow. “I thought you guys said one of them got a job in Washington?”

“That _was_ their story,” Kurt concedes, breathing in the scent of Blaine’s shampoo, of sweat and whatever is wrapped up the familiar, comforting scent of Blaine. Of home.

Of their home in New York, which is closer to reality than ever.

Honestly, he’d had mixed feelings about the whole thing when it first came up - part of him hurt that Blaine seemed to be so excited about the whole thing. Yes, he knew that being back together was still new - however right it felt - and they’d talked about it. How Sam needed a roommate if he was going to New York, planning to try it for a while, send money home, and how Blaine hadn’t wanted to assume anything, but he’d needed to start making plans if he wasn’t going to be living in the dorms. How both their families thought it might be best to live their first semester or year separate, just at first. How being back together was amazing, but they didn’t know yet what they were ready for. How this was too important to lose.

How Rachel had found out that apartment 207 was going to be empty.

He knows it will be amazing. It makes him feel gleeful at times, thinking about Blaine living with Sam. And, on the other hand, there had been more than a few nights anxious in his own apartment, just wanting Blaine in his bed - their bed - as soon as possible, forever. But this, this will work. He knows it.

Blaine is taking a break from nuzzling to murmur in his ear. “My mattress won’t arrive until tomorrow morning, and the last few boxes my parents are going to ship should arrive together sometime early next week. I’m making a list of the other things I’ll need to get this weekend, and then other things that can wait.”

“Well,” Kurt is still smoothing his fingers over Blaine’s stomach, “luckily I think I know a place you can crash.” 

Blaine’s eyes are sparkling with what Kurt knows is love. Love and maybe a little delight. “Oh yeah?”

“Maybe. You know, if you play your cards right.”

“You know that whole thing about loving your neighbor?”

“Mmmm?” 

Blaine’s lips are near his, forming the beginning of a reply Kurt’s sure he’s going to like, and Kurt’s turning his head a little to meet Blaine’s neck. They don’t have the privacy for a repeat of this morning in the shower, but if Blaine can be quiet -

“Kurt, I think your list was wron- oh, _there_ you guys are!” The half-constructed-curtain - that Kurt is going to do something about, seriously, he’s finally got the partitioning right over in his and Rachel’s apartment - swings back to reveal Sam and Finn, each holding a box.

“Dude,” Sam says seriously, “I think you got my second box of comics. This one has sheet music and stuff in it. I don’t have yours, though, so your X-Men should be in here somewhere.” 

“What’re you guys doing?” Finn asks, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I thought you said we couldn’t take a break until more of the boxes were unpacked.”

“I was just going over the plan with Blaine. And I already have the sandwiches set out in our kitchen, Finn,” Kurt frowns, clinging to Blaine’s shirt even as he tries to put space between them for the sake of appearances. “Rachel picked them up before she went to rehearsal.” 

“So can we...”

Kurt looks around at the chaos of boxes and unassembled furniture, and then to Blaine and Sam. He shrugs, and they shrug back in a sort of ambiguous agreement. They’ve gotten a lot done in a few hours this morning - there’s only a few boxes left in the hall - and although Kurt’s been using his undeniable expertise to help streamline the process, it is their apartment. He’ll just be consulting to make sure that it’s habitable, and that the apartment manifests the personal aesthetic of the inhabitants in the best and most fashionable way. He does, after all, anticipate them spending a lot of time here. 

He does think that his and Rachel’s apartment will make a great hangout spot for the group.

He may have been watching a lot of reruns of Friends in the weeks since he found out that Blaine and Sam were definitely moving into the building. And before, because the one thing he knows he can trust about cable is that there is over an 80% chance of there being at least one episode of Friends at any given time.

When he moved to New York last fall he’d found that comforting, a little piece of normal in this scary new city of dreams. He’d curl up and remember watching these same episodes curled up with Blaine, warm and safe. He’d looked at Monica and Chandler going from friends to lovers, finding their missing puzzle piece, and he’d smiled, perhaps through some tears.

And then October came, and the memories hadn’t seemed quite as safe. Monica choked out that she “never thought I’d be so lucky as to fall in love with my best friend” and Kurt cried into his throw pillow, sobbed, breath ragged and chest tight, for everything they had been. Everything they weren’t.

And then, there he was, and in the early stages of becoming _them_ again Blaine had even mentioned something on the phone. Something about seeing the couples on television, the ones that were clearly meant to be, and it allowing him to hope. Hope that maybe couples like them, like Chandler and Monica, could find each other, and that being soulmates, knowing that, would mean that they’d find their way back to where they were meant to be. To their best friend.

Kurt had cried a little at that too, and from then on he’d let himself plan again, plan his (better decorated) kitchen. He’s no professional chef, and over his dead body is Sam touching his cheesecake, but the parallel is appealing.

They all help themselves to lunch, Kurt and Blaine on the couch. Blaine’s looking at one of Kurt’s lists, the one with the boxes itemized and grouped. 

Kurt has a mouthful of sandwich when Blaine yelps in alarm. It’s sort of a squeak, and he might find it cute if he weren’t both worried and trying to avoid choking.

 

“What is it?” he manages.

“This box,” Blaine replies, sounding stricken as he points to an item on the list. “It says it’s still in Westerville.”

“There’s a few boxes arriving next week, remember?”

“No, I know, but...” Blaine takes a deep breath. “Never mind.”

“What is it?”

He looks so sad, settling the list down on his knees and picking at a piece of lettuce. “It’s just... I must have put a box in the wrong group.”

“What are you missing?”

And there’s no other word for it, now Blaine looks forlorn. “My hair products,” he mumbles, so quiet that Kurt might have think he misheard him if this wasn’t Blaine. Blaine takes his hair products seriously. Which, obviously, Kurt can respect, but...

“You didn’t bring any with you separately?”

“I didn’t think I’d need to!” Sam and Finn, who are still over by the sandwich platter, look over in concern. 

“You okay, man?” Sam comes over and, when Blaine doesn’t answer (presumably mourning his loss), he picks the list up, scanning it. “Oh, so, that’s where my comics are? Damn, I wanted to show Finn my number eighty seven mint condition. Honestly, dude, you’re going to love it -”

Blaine is still frowning, and Kurt’s attention moves back to him. He takes his free hand and runs his thumb up and down soothingly. “Don’t worry, okay? You look - you’re amazing.” Blaine smiles weakly, but, although it reaches his eyes, Kurt knows he needs to find more. “And, if an emergency should arise, I should tell you that I have some - limited - emergency supplies in stock.” 

Blaine’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Well,” Kurt shrugs one shoulder with a calculating glance through his eyelashes. “It’s best to be prepared.” He raises a warning finger. “You should know that only an emergency will be enough to open the supply box -”

Blaine’s grinning now. “I’m confident that I’ll find a way to convince you.”

Kurt’s breath catches at the look in Blaine’s eyes, and his gaze flicks to Finn and Sam, a few feet away and arguing about superheroes. Then back to his boyfriend. 

“You know what we don’t have that they have in Friends?”

Blaine tilts his head, hand firmly on Kurt’s knee. “What?”

Kurt takes the hand away and twining their fingers. This’ll have to do for now. They have tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after. He sighs. “Walls.”

***

Kurt likes to think he is a reasonable, peaceful person, but if Isabelle texts him again - for what has to be the tenth time in as many minutes - on the subject of the proofs for yesterday’s shoot, and the incompetence of the assistant who had lost them, then he won’t be held responsible for his actions. He’s spent the whole afternoon on his feet, running from department to department because sending emails just wasn’t cutting it. He hasn’t even checked any other texts since lunch, having left his phone in his bag in his haste to get out of the office on time, escaping into his music as soon as he cleared the vogue.com building. Some well chosen Patti is helping, but he’s thinking, as he rounds the top of the stairs on his floor and digs his keys out of his bag, that it’s going to be a night for -

“Well hello, there,” says a voice to his right, and he pulls out one of his earbuds in his haste to turn around.

And all of a sudden his day doesn’t look so dismal after all. 

Because, _oh yeah_ , his boyfriend lives across the hall now. And apparently the rest of their boxes arrived today, if the pile outside the door is any indication. 

“Well,” Kurt lets himself sigh happily, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes...”

Blaine frowns immediately, hanging in the doorway but looking like he’s trying to assess if Kurt needs some space. “Bad day?”

“Let’s just say it’s much improved.” At Blaine’s eyebrow he adds “I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay.” Blaine shifts on his feet. “Oh, by the way, look what arrived!”

“I noticed. I’m sure your bathroom counter won’t be lonely anymore.” 

Blaine wrinkles his nose, makes grabby hands across the hall. “I missed you today.” His socked feet take him into the hall, where Kurt meets him. He enjoys the warmth wrapped around him, sinks into Blaine’s embrace.

“I missed you too. It was a crazy day.”

“I’m sure you saved the fashion world at least once.”

“I try. Ugh, and Isabelle wants to talk about my hours once school starts again and I told her - oh, that feels really good...” 

Blaine continues blindly kneading between his shoulders, voice muffled in Kurt’s neck. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

It’s silly, they’ve been having dinner together most nights anyway, all of them, since Blaine and Sam moved in. But they’ve found a few nights to be alone too, and Kurt’s liking this whole love thy neighbor thing, it turns out.

“Is this going to be like dinner last night?” 

Blaine hums into his neck guiltily, no doubt recalling burnt pizza and tangled naked limbs on various surfaces of apartment 207. “I’ve definitely had worse evenings.”

And they are in the very public hallway, Kurt cannot let this go where his body mostly wants it to go. “I didn’t say I’d object. Not to be cliche, but your place or mine?”

“I think Sam’ll be home.”

“Rachel has a late rehearsal.” He presses a kiss to Blaine’s ear, smiles into the needy whine as Blaine chases his lips for another, longer one as he pulls away. “I’ve got to change, see you in an hour?”

“Don’t change, I love you just the way you are.”

Kurt swats him, grimaces as he plucks at his cardigan sleeve. “And here I was thinking there might be too many layers.”

Blaine raises both hands and smirks, eyes sparkling. “I withdraw my complaint.” 

“I thought so.” He reaches into his bag again, but a few moments later something makes him turn back, catch Blaine’s eyes on him as he’s framed by the doorway, a box in his arms. “I love you,” he exhales, keys poised on their way to the lock, eyes fixed and sure.

Blaine looks a little struck with something, something more than usual. “I love you too.”

It’s far from the first time either of them has said those words, or the first time they’ll be planning an evening together, one that will hopefully end in the exploration of the dirty dice that he got Blaine as a joke gift for his last birthday. He suspects Blaine found a way to rig them last time they played, although admittedly after Kurt rolled “blow” and Blaine rolled “below the waist” he was playing less attention to statistical probability.

But that’s the point. It’s one night of many, one of what could be a lifetime, and there’s something beautiful and intoxicating about that. About the promise of this not being a one time thing - it’s special, always, but not rare.

He turns away again, reluctantly, to open the front door, and when he’s on the other side of it he catches his new neighbor very definitely checking him out. He opts not to say anything and instead hopes that his expression conveys the kind of sultry “later” he’s never sure if he can pull off (although Blaine inevitably tells him he most definitely can). At the click of the door he leans against it for a moment. Embraces the full fantasticness of living across the hall from the love of his life. And hopefully, maybe soon, when they’re ready, they’ll be living closer than that. He knows that, as it is, they’ll be living in each other’s beds, that each of their beds will be _their_ bed, but one day... one day there will be a bed they pick out together, and instead of Blaine’s bottles just wandering into Kurt’s shelf of products they’ll have their place. A shelf of his own (although the bottles will still get mixed up, and Kurt would be lying if he didn’t get a little thrill at the thought, even if Blaine can’t seem to get his perfectly logical organizational system). 

There are a lot of _one days_ , a lot of things he wants, and knows he and Blaine will make happen.

But right now there’s tonight, and he needs to find those pants, the ones he wore last week and nearly made Blaine walk into a wall.

(Kurt’s favorite roll of the night would turn out to be “lick” and the excellent “?” choose-your-own option, and those dice were possibly the best investment he has ever made. Blaine’s going to have a hell of a time topping them at christmas, that’s for sure.)


End file.
